


Happiness Is A Butterfly

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Eating out, F/F, Getting Together, Late Night Conversations, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Smut, Stargazing, Unconditional Love, and oh boy have i given that to them, bisexual rita, bottom jane, inappropriate use of rita's powers, jane deserves happiness, rita deserves happiness, rita has stretch marks because i said so, top rita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: Rita's having a bad night.Jane's there.
Relationships: Rita Farr/Crazy Jane
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Happiness Is A Butterfly

There's a tingle; o' a malicious midnight rush; that floats down throughout her body for what is the seventh time in twelve minutes - a dissolving; otherworldly and bringer of gangrenous godhood in any other circumstance.

Or it would be divine and macabre - best suited to the knowing, burn of heathen, heretic church crosses built into rosy stained glass that spied on you with arrogant, persuasive, guilt driven, tactical, drowning god complex eyes with unbecoming, prophesied calamity in them, if it was not simply _mortifying._ Which it _was._

Oh, _god._ Rita internally moans; pouty and peeved. She stuffed herself under the intricate, impersonal forests of her covers, tightening the scarlet eye mask around her with fidgeting, frantic, fingers. _What_ would it have to take around here, she sulked, for a girl to get a good night's _rest?_

The decadent ruby bedsheets that linger under her do not know kindness nor tolerance; and despite her fixing the issue once again, and forcibly pushing herself back into something solid, and decent, they are stained with a dampness brought upon by the wetness of her transformation. Though she knows herself; and the truthfulness of the past five seconds events, she is briefly further embarrassed by the fleeting concern that she might have just _soiled_ herself.

She's granted a moment of peace between the relief against this being the case, but it is rare and vanishing, as her left leg began to melt again; prisoners were her skin; chained like Prometheus to seaside rocks that carried themselves in uttermost _vexation_ and disbelief.

The bottom of the brunette's nose curl heavenward; a passioned fist, grudge born and abhorrent; _imploring._

From her throat a half baked snarl emits; the nearby wails of an antique oak clock and the vague discomfort from the sheets cause the world to downpour in an overflow of a bumbling, bountiful over abundance of final straws, and with a melodramatic _huff and puff;_ Rita is overtaken by fits of a sudden, shaky, storm. Her waist shoots upwards into a sitting position, the blankets concealing her flying off without prior warning.

By pure spite and contempt, she manages to remain solid. Rita's chipped, cherry wine colored nails had danced over her mask before her middle finger and thumb attacked it savagely, lifting it over her eyebrows, swift and hurried. Her sight returned to her; once basked in the inglorious technical glory of bitter void. Though it was the same given the hour, she darted out to seek the light of the lamp next to her; commanding it on easily.

And it had; its golden streams of dim, concealed, parted lips nurtured her; in attempts to quell her fury. Her lip trembled; thrice, and unable to withstand this no longer she _explodes_ in the stars, and the gladness of the night sky, without the stifling, _suffocation_ of societal standards and expectations, unladylike and bursting from the protection of the furniture, like _a bastard bombardment_ of doves in the rule of flight, shoving away her blankets as they fly into the air and descend like pancake fluffed, practiced, parachutes.

Through some earned miracle, she does not have another reaction in her attempts at rising; but the floor is freezing; cranky and chilled on her bare feet. The manor was unreasonably frigid for the season, due to entirely to Cliff having (clearly lost a brain cell or two) been convinced by Hammerhead that as more robot than anything sensible, he could talk to electronics.

Well, of course he _couldn't._ Of course not. Neither the toaster nor the microwave would be tripping over themselves to reach the rest of them to strike up a conversation. Not that he was willing to listen to _them._

The ruse had lasted longer than Rita's patience; and the amount of time that Hammerhead had been fronting. It culminated quite headache inducing when Cliff attempted to initiate a friendship with the thermostat and _plunged_ his oversized metal hand straight into it for a high five.

Rita _longs_ for the heat again. Houses that were big were more hellish than a regular one without it. And no one was willing to try and fix the thing. Or buy a new one. And Rita was not not exactly confident enough in her handyman talents to do it herself. The next time the alter fronts; Rita only hopes that she does not convince him to take out the all the lights.

She squeezes herself; huddling into herself as she creates miles between her and sleep; under the waring witness of the whiteness of the moon's irises Not that it was coming anytime soon it appeared. fatigued, faulty, _shamelessly devoted -_ and sluggishly devoured by loyalty, the silvery nightgown she wore crept behind her; creeping its creep chorus of creepy choreography.

Synchronized were her legs, orders followed one by the next, finding simplicity in stomping them downwards childishly in the implicit, impervious demand of the roaring desire for the world to sigh with pent up surrender and return her the motherly burdens of o' high highest worm holes for her troubles.

The woman flocked red faced to the vanity across the bed; she rose her leg and slid it against the chair in front of it, pushing it from the spotlight with creaking, misfit grumbles. With it thoroughly subdued, Rita slammed her palms down onto the mahogany, careless and unthinking of the rest of the items on it; resonating and unruly - hideously hampered by a frenzy of frail frustration.

"The person who is breathing is me." A greedy inhale; eager towards her own mirror. Her palms lay flat and loveless. It is wet, disjointed, and clumsy. "The person who is breathing, _is me."_

In and out; like the breath for a smoke, and the departure of it. She'd make a most excellent person to blow up a balloon at the moment. The act is intimate; love letters of correspondence that sought another reciever; another reader that was sweetly a pre recorded version of herself, and not breezed by an _updated_ originality that endured an isolation that had not been formed and birthed so naturally by the understanding and partnership of the learnt searing timeless _erasure_ of womanhood.

No; she was agonizingly still present and seen - quietly considered - not observed. What a difference. _Considered._ She wasn't an actress anymore. Here; frozen, slept on faced and bare - she wasn't Rita anymore. Now she looked like what she was - inside; and once from the satin of an easy womb, cracked skull chapped lips of clattering, quivering, erased despondency. The antithetical repugnant contradiction of the sporadic self portraits and headshots known and rightfully loved by promising pasts that glower sweetly.

She gulps, channeling her inner fish. _Not tonight._ She negotiates, eliminating the moisture in her eyes. _"Pull yourself together, Rita Farr."_

Because she was still that. She could melt into a thousand and four misshapen blobs; but her name was still _hers._ There was a magnitude; even if now it was a left to a fridge - _magnets were still magnets._

...Was she pathetic? Oh god, was she acting pathetic? Was she? Was she?

Beneath her her legs begin to dissolve once more, and forcibly allows herself to breathe again.

_Pull yourself together Rita._

No she's _suppose to be a star._ She holds her head high again. Rita Farr Superstar. _Of course_ she wasn't pathetic.

_Maybe a mess._

Stars - leading ladies, don't spend their time building themselves back up; _literally,_ that it.  
  
So she's the _exception._ Oh well, it didn't detract or suspend the rest. _The person who was breathing was her._

 _Why_ was it so damn _hard_ tonight -"

Ripe; a clangor sounds off - muffled from the chalky thickness manor's walls, like an echoing break in something. It settles into anonymity and only was real for a duo of seconds; before a rich _thump_ had been after.

Rita tensed further; startled. She swirled her body around to the door, cramping up her nut colored thin brows, arms reunited to her side.

There was something under it; in the hallway, an aqua light seeping through like an orb of sunlight.

Oh. For -

She separates herself from the moping brought by her reflection, and rolls her sea stranded eyes escorting herself over to the lone door; pulling the flawless copper of the knob open, with a gust of air following.

She freezes in her place; idle hands and idle thoughts - bewilderment present. They flicker forwards and then, gradually, below.

Larry's on the ground, neatly bandaged in his coat and perfectly unmoving; light snores brought out as he lays face first and uncomfortably unconscious on the white marble. In his sudden lose of consciousness he seems to have done damage; as to the left of him was jagged violet edges of a shattered vase. One that The Chief had bought several years ago.

And the... spirit. If that was even close to right word for... _it._

Its surging head made a move to abandon its study of the man's fallen form, his head, slow, _deliberate,_ syrup and butter on toast, choosing her. Its body was tall, and still; violent waves of ominous jolts of decadence flooding its own self; braveheart bursts of the _damnation_ of a dam. Bluest blue; honeyed by icy, otherworldly, riveting shade. Its presence causes her to shift; unable to process instantly the ensuing secondhand shudder of nearby electricity that hums faintly around the three in the emptiness. A vibration of humming.

"Oh - dear. Hello, then." She tumbles out awkwardly. Having only seen the thing thrice or four times before, the fact that her oldest friend was unconscious on the floor was a fact she did not overlook. " _...Whatever exactly_ you may be."

It looks at her. Possibly. The lack of genuine eyes made it impossible to tell that it was doing anything other than... be there. It... its arm raised; noisy and static.

It... it waved. _Was it_ waving? Its transparent arm moved back and forth; trained.

 _Oh_ couldn't anything be _normal_ in this place!?

The spirit short circuited a hole into her; head unmoving. She half expects it grow another; or even turn sour with redness. But it doesn't; seemingly tired of her company - not that she blamed it - it turned; unnervingly easily hovering half off the ground, floating from her - intentionally leisurely traversing the hallway - unholy and holy paradox of _breathless abandon_ of words; worrying sin and marvel of unknown life. Without words; though she didn't even know if the... creature could communicate verbally.

All she could do was watch as it flocked away from her, and disappeared behind a wall.

So a resounding no, on the normal front, then. She thinks.

_Of course not._

The body on the ground is unfailingly still without its counterpart - showing no signs of rushing back into consciousness anytime soon. Rita can't begin to deal with any of it right now; and exhales, irked as she tentatively steps over him.

It's deceptive how quiet the manor is at night.

It should be immeasurably more thunderous than it was right now. It was during the day. The crickets near window bushes should not be the sole source of ambience for them.

Rita _loathes_ it. The manor has a responsibility to not leave her in it. What it contained was wine drunk recollection, caressing of old, shinier, photos and watching the _same_ the _same_ movie for the fourth time that week.

In any case; the crickets were keeping her afloat.

On the nights she finds herself in the position of restlessness; either from insomnia, or sudden bursts of dissolving - or unluckily both, she's usually the only one awake; well, Cliff can't _stop_ being awake, but he wasn't ever anywhere to be found, That thing inside Larry was always somewhere. And well, if she wasn't alone, the rest certainly were fine letting the assumption sit.

But tonight her getaway seems to have been ambushed.

Rita stands at the end of the hallway - her knee drooping again; rebellious with intent and unmatched in ruthlessness that understandably has it out for her. Her waist doubles over; like a cramp that doesn't die out, but doesn't get easier with different positions. She backs up against the wall - trying everything in her power to breathe through her nose, and through the familiar frustrating distress towards her lack of control.

 _God_ could she be a normal woman for _one_ night?

In her state she catches herself craning her head to the right of her; peering through the glass of the back doors from a distance.

She saw the moon; crescent and florescent; the yard. The picnic table that flew lonely with it.

Something was in the grass. Or on the grass. And _someone_ at that.

Rita squints in the dimness; regaining enough of her bearings to step away from the wall's saftey. She cocked her head, taking a step forth in investigation. She opened the door and was kissed by the Summer late night breeze. She pulls her nightgown closer to her, shivering, and steps out onto the grass - its sharp blades are wild and untamed; broken up and built upon intoxication and ancient freedoms.

Was that...?

"What on earth are you _doing_ out here so _late?"_ Rita drawls, inquisitive, glimpsing at the grass. "Especially down there?"

The body below doesn't steal her focus away from the glittering night sky; but does give it away to her for blinding second.

"Unless you're a ghost, you're out here too you know." Jane, uninterested, deadpans, unfazed by her arrival.

She's dressed head to toe in a regular outfit; easily mistaken for a person in the middle of the afternoon. Her hair was caked a bit by the dirt beneath her and a tad wild, that it reminds Rita of an alter named Lucy. Her arms were promised to both of her sides, stubbornly kept neatly along with her stuck together legs. Pensive.

"Because it looked like there was a dead person in our yard." Rita defends casually; inching closer with both arms crossed. "But it was only you. Doing... what, exactly?"

Without blinking; "Watching."

"Watching _what?"_

"What does it look like, Farr?"

Rita pursed her lips; releasing breath. She pondered this; gazing upwards after some time.

"The stars? You're... stargazing?"

Jane's eyes stutter. "Why'd you _say it_ like that?"

"What? How'd did I say it?"

"Like you can't believe it."

She drops her arms to herself again. "Well it's a soft gesture; not that you're not soft, but you're certainly... more than that at times."

Jane chuckled. But a type of _Jane_ laugh that actually conveyed daunting, explicit sentences. "Thanks for the vote of confidence there, black lagoon."

At the nickname, Rita grimaces, more performance than anything true. But she, incomprehensible, indulges in the action, breaking the distance, lowering her legs down onto the emerald ground that dares with egregious _phantoms of wickedness_ to tickle her skin and knees. Aware that she hadn't asked the other's opinion on her joining; her body turned, dirt on her palms as she swirls around to readjust herself - able to be facing the same direction as the only other woman in the house.

Well, the spirit could be a girl for all they knew. Or a man - or neither!

Her spine is embraced by the grass; and the stars return home oh so _hungrily_ to her heart. Her sight - her vision; spoon fed spoon feeding; copious and _inexhaustible._ The night; spread thin and outwards.

It's a beautiful night. Rita thought.

She had starred the lead role in a romantic drama, back when it was more than an object remembered with a fond, bittersweet, dejected, _homesickness_ of the third, most personal, kind. It had been alongside Clark Gable - (who, as Rita, fresh faced and horribly naive, had found out, was just a bit smug and - to put it bluntly; a _jackass_ both on a romantic and platonic day to day scale.) they had shot a scene, under the naked twilight; the twinkles of disappearing stars a backdrop to a rather cliche story.

Oh, but she'd go for cliche, right now.

"About what happened, last weekend..." It's a start to an already awkward conversation. "With Karen and... _Doug..."_

"Look, I know, but don't ask me to make her apologize to you. _I'm not_ Karen. I can't make her front whenever to force her to say sorry. She's an _asshole;_ but she's her _own_ person."

Rita tenses somewhat at the defensiveness. "I wasn't going to ask you that. I'm aware. I was going to... ask if you were alright. I'm not sure i'd want Cliff Steele in my head either."

"Well don't. Talk about something else." It's snappy; and quick footed, but there's vague semblance of gentleness that, if it was anyone else prying, would not be so kind.

Rita doesn't think about it.

"Alright."

"Why are you out here then?" Down on her level Rita can smell the fragrance of violets riddled in Jane's tantalizing personhood; it gloats and floats around with a blanket of knowing smirks, huddled between Jane's question and the hardy ally of the lit sky.

Rita chewed her lip; permitting mercy once blood had been drawn. "I... was... only getting up for a drink. Odd that I ended up beside you outside, but here we are, I suppose."

Rita Farr-ness; heckled by wit and carried under weights and seas of the utmost professional certainty. Ruby lips; crystalized, crystal eyes, a map fraught with trails of facade, placid posture, pristine.

Gertrude Cramp-ness; trampled; sampled by traces of expected expectancy; stardom most profound and taught, out of her mother's womb in layers of twinkling colored lips - darkened eyes.

Rita Far-ness; crashed and burnt learnt dreams torn at the seams - floundering in water; captured by a single broken chance and transformed into something to train; to pity - to withstand with wavering loyalty and damned embarassing _patience_

 _She supposed._ She echoed internally.

Who the hell was she?

_Oh god she was so lonely._

"Even if I didn't know you're lying that'd be a terrible one." Jane's head rolled to the left; scanning Rita under the eye of nature and insects. She felt the streams of her fresh breath; tainted and loved by mint gum. It felt soaked with dizzying poppy seeds. "Aren't you an actor?"

"Excuse me?"

"The walls are thin. I could hear you going over that breathing exercise you do from all the way in my room. You've been awake for like, two and a half hours."

"Ah -" It's thick with crushing scented flushed embarassment. "apologizes - sorry if I woke you."

"I wasn't asleep." Jane responds. "Couldn't sleep before you even started it. Hammerhead broke our space heater."

"Oh - still." She continued sheepishly. "It was very annoying to have heard, probably..."

A pause that's smoldering. It's just their presence that speaks to each of them. Rita's shoulder is up between Jane's; skin to skin contact; a singular tingle; rushed, bashful _electrifying_ experience that is sent unconquered - grave - bountiful, through her being - her fizzled, fried, jolted atoms. It _was_ the soul's electric leather ballad sung; by a woman - she was she.

When they part; the detox is cold; _crucified calamity -_ harrowing hungered _longing_ \- two limbs departed traversing endlessly in the milky way and beyond through the air and fabric of feckless fate to resume their inhibitions of starvation. Where has the warmth _fled?_

"You're beautiful."

"What?"

"I said, you're _beautiful."_ Jane repeats, but Rita was looking at her shoulder. "You're still you. Blob monster or not - but you're not a monster. I know monsters."

She swallowed; taken aback by the softness; not counting the knowing roughness delivered in the last word. It was feather floated, flaunted coolness; dripping like a cotton candy swirl aqua - pastel popsicle in July.

It's been -

A long time has passed; since anyone had ever called Rita beautiful. _Really._ She's been out - in the rarity of not witnessing her own filmography. And in the rarity of having not turned into a blob in the process.

She's been places; encountered the men of both the golden twentieth century - and the fresh twenty first century - _of course_ Rita Farr was attractive.

To any skeevy con artist - to men that wanted her limelight _ceased,_ in favor of walking out of a headache colored kitchen with chocolate cake and pointed, sparkled shoes. Men that dressed smartly and smoked cigarettes, reeking of the _afternoon / midday drink_ in images of the _heartbreak americana,_ straight off the divorce of their fourth wife and prepared to destroy the career and noisy spirit of the fifth, robbing blind o' hopes, money, value, self, and _time_ with flashy shark teeth and charm, unaware of her Rita-ness - bombarded; symphony heart pumping, sauntering, shouting, elastic, windy, golden globe nominee.

She wasn't a hero; ill fated as one, but simply Rita Farr - morphed into wicked change. She was to be left alone with wine and friends and her own movies. But _no one_ faded Rita Farr.

Not then, at least.

Was she being bitter in all of this? Was _she bitter?_ Was she? Was she a bitter person?

She's a product of the time such men took charge and were considered untamed, beastly, lion, men-of-the-year. No matter how modern Rita became, she stayed very much this. Among the ghostly nature of something grand now lost. And evidently so had the rest of old now new hollywood.

There was - _there should be missing posters -_ for the _tenderness_ denied. Refused by non action and manipulative power drunk immunity. And the denial of sweetness.

But all these men had orbited Rita. _Rita._ Before; and secretive afterwards. None had known what she became. And those that did made it clear their horrors. Her features were a prologue for the choice of compassion for them.

No one ever included _that_ Rita. The imperfect mishap. It wasn't exactly like she _asked_ to be it. Of course, her actions beforehand in life had not always been selfless - or fair; or decent - but now they -

They; each women on the blade of grass; held a fire flamed tenderness; rooted in the seeds of previous unwise hardness, but their hearts were o' the same; beat with crimson, ungodly, boundless, blood that cries out too late but with the seriousness of the courage of tries. They held no difference with more braver, willing heroes.

And damn; thought Rita - did that not mean they deserved a _shot?_

No one's ever called every Rita marvelous before. Even before everything. As closed off as Jane could be; she had a meticulous habit of being warm the rest of time.

At least to her.

So maybe it wasn't solitude she wanted, nowadays, but more than anything - an unconditional condition. If another walkthrough of all of this was disallowed.

Sue her.

"I..." She blinks away the tears of tomorrow; the night sky looking more like a masterpiece than ever. She clears her throat. She can't think of anything witty for this. "Jane. I... well, I don't know how to respond to that."

Jane flops over to her left side; haphazardly accidentally inching closer. "There's... a thank you?" An ultra rare, ethereal, star slaying, cheeky grin spread across her features. "Because i'm not wrong."

The smile is an ache - devouring tingle. It's a flutter within, a bird in flight, and a disquiet eruption of singed flesh on a street wires. It's bubbling and giddy in glory, and... and... and...?

Cars zoom scattered in various timelines; far away and all together underneath the blaring, burning sky. Her heart is maddeningly assaulted in crashing seas of dawn and dusk; clementine juices; violet petals.

Oh.

 _Oh._ She blinked.

Oh - was she...?

Was she...? Oh that'd -

Well; that's definitely not new. Another thing she's been ignoring.

It's not news to her, that Rita has looked at women a certain way, on a same level as her gaze towards men, the same way Larry looked at men, and with particular energy, since she was four; and it's not news that she spent every year until she was twenty-two suppressing it; unaware of the labels she did not know nor accept in her fabric of selfhood.

...Bisexual, was what it was, if she recalled correctly. Sometimes she found it hard to remember all the words that she did not have access to in the twentieth century. Rita liked the gentleness of the word - its legs; its heart shaped features. Gay was a word she knew; loved, and felt closely wrapped around - but bisexual was a steam powered engine of _relief_ for a word finally found over the course of several and more decades.

She's a strong, assertive, woman. Rita _knows_ what she likes; wants - like sweets. Life was too short to view it in the same light as twenty-one year old her had. As some ancient, greek, tragedy of hubris and betrayal. She's... she's never... well... _anything,_ with another woman before, never finding someone - and when she had, failing miserably at any talk.

Love between two women was anything _but_ a betrayal and crime of pride.

Oh - dear, however. She thinks. Jane was pretty - reckoned reckoning drawn in and thrust out in a cycle of beauty appreciated; then trembled for. She hadn't given herself time to muse over this at all, but the blockage had been all but meekly drained by her smirk.

 _Ah -_ alright, she... sees, she...

Jane was... _well she hadn't noticed it before,_ but...

 _Was that_ wise...? They both had enough on their plate, what, with the missing Chief, and...

The memory of their shoulders together makes her knees weak.

"Jane..." She trailed off, flustered, red in her cheeks underneath the night sky. "Thank you. I also think you're... pretty."

Rita stares down at the beads of grass, her fingers gripping them absent mindedly, breaking the eye contact that felt...

"Thanks. You're also hot."

Rita's head snapped up; wide eyed, and making a little indignant noise. _Well now_ she was _definitely_ blushing. Oh - she gaped at her; perplexed and scattered brained - Jane had only laid there on her side, face eons closer, seemingly playfully amused at her predicament.

Something under her nightgown felt... Godlike. _searing._

"You're also sexy." Jane kept going; adding fuel to the fire of the flustered. Maintaining a recovered sea breeze of eye contact; golden in paled turquoise. Soft tones.

It held an intensity; a grand, vigor; robust revolt of _desire_ to be pinned for. Stalwart - spiritual - ample. A spark of _palpitations._

A shake; a quiver. The heavens are an abandoned, forgotten, symphony; lead in by a collision of asteroids and nirvana. The boundless, brisk, envious, frenzied existence of half quartered lives begun; thrust into no expectation and held by the velvet threads of the time someone must have chosen _survival._ relying on the kindness of strangers for sparked embers and awkwardly new blooms of roses in the iron tainted lungs.

The heavens were loud - shouting in the agony of their unsweet cast out angel's falls.

And death; untender - rancorous, vitriolic, _unfair,_ drop in harmony. Birth and death; thee thy; two sides of a coin - rise and ascent of thee. Lost little lamb; unwilling. What death lacked, life raised; the savory stench of _copper compassion._

She gazed across; lips parted.

_"Jane."_

The woman stirred; sporadic and sudden; screeching out in action; the upheaval of the chorus's melody - Jane's legs fell over hers; palms kneading the grass; her jeans digging in to Rita's skin; her breath closer, personal, firsthand.

She was on top of her.

Her eyes held a daunting inflamed spark; and then they scorched; leaning in for an attack.

Jane tastes like minty gum; Rita's mouth is invaded by its refreshed cleanliness. She moaned. It whirls in its coup; rebuilding and funding the many arts. The shock dissipates in the atmosphere - and returns it - womanhood's tame, famed gentleness. Jane pressed harder, running over the sleeves of Rita's gown.

 _"Wait."_ She breathes. Rita interrupts.

Jane dissolves immediately; attentive, lips now frigid and aching - her eyes scan her in inquisitiveness as she moved away from her features.

"What? What is it?" She asks.

Rita chuckled; face still red. "Well... this... I want this - believe me, but... we can't exactly do this... outside, can we...?"

Think of the _bugs._

"What's wrong with outside?" Jane asks, catching her breath, but doesn't protest or defy her wishes.

"It's not very practical, imagine if someone inside came out here. And dirt in certain... areas could be uncomfortable."

Jane hugged herself, pushing herself off Rita's chest, but a glint took hold in her eyes.

"Your place, or mine then?"  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

They flutter through the empty halls like giddy schoolgirls. Latched on to each other's hands like babes on their mother's breast, that send famished tingles down the other.

The door to Rita's room chatters open; intoxicated by rare waves of sunny laughter between two women. Jane's hands traverse dominantly over and through Rita's face and hair; the latter's crimson colored fingers devoted determinedly to hurridly unzipping the other's jacket; Jane's arms exiting and shrugging it off easily as it drops to the oak floorboards without witness; like heels dropped to it after a giggly, _wine filled,_ extravagant night out. But they're _blindingly sober._ Jane rejects the remaining sweater underneath; throwing it across the room in between breaths.

It's dim and dark; they each engage in battle; fighting passively to take hold - lead the other into and to gracious glory.

Jane stumbles against the end of the bed; pressed against it, destination appreciated and reached, Rita pushes her down onto the mattress, pausing the devotion of her lips - she allows herself to be guided; the woman's hand, lingering over Jane's chest, isolated. Her palm raised flat, she presses down against it, the upper half of Jane collapsing onto the bedsheets; Jane inched further onto them.

Rita joined her in a synchronized harmony; standing straight before her - unwavering eye. A timeless, intimate, quiet worship fraught with entranced selflessness was washed out and inwards through Jane.

Rita tinkers with the straps of her gown; burning ivory into her with the deliberate, sedated, personalized and soulful, removal; bring each pale arm out of them; one after the next, they fall from the boundless sky - fallen and faded infamy. They descend to the ground with hurried pace; and with it, the rest of her clothing.

Before God and the portraits upon the lavish walls; she is exposed; gown crumpling to the floor in critical unworthiness. The air flickers on her divine nakedness; the knowable richness of born state. The air bound by opulence and cool stylishness. Her breasts sit bare; vulnerable and hopeful. A map to the intricate roads to and of her skin. Beneath them; lavender - white lines of foggy recollections; stretch marks that kiss her skin an utmost loyal lover. Her pussy below them; shaved, pink, pulchritudinous, beddable and _bewitching._

Jane observes her; a study in pristine statues. Delight in the dark.

Rita turned; headed to the vanity, the cheeks of her ass a sold out broadway show of a view - the strawberry clip in her hair is removed; carefully setting it onto the wood with kindly care. A hush overtakes them; held next to cleanliness.

With it discarded; Rita leisurely returned to the bed; Jane's lime lace bra a dazzled sight; her ample breasts moving up and downwards as she scooted forward to the end. The former reached it again, lowering herself on the edge of it as she sat down. She cupped Jane's cheek, rubbing her thumb against it; delicate and ungreedy. Jane's mouth twitched. She went in; lips crashing onto hers.

The only noise was the connection of them; touched; landing and departing. Jane leaned in, intoxicated, running her hand over Rita's bare chest, a chilling phantom on her thigh. Rita grinned; toothy, nose against nose in between the act, meeting them again.

Tragically; Rita brought them _away,_ extending a hand to the back of Jane's bra - unraveling the hooks of it, untying them; until they are pathetically vanquished - crumbling off onto Jane's lap; in death, it is as useful as it was in life.

Her breasts are small; tiny cups of fawn colored scarcity that harmonize devoutly. Rita touches them; tender and well rounded. She trails a circle around them, drawing shapes and highways across her skin. She pulls away; bending down to the floor on her knees to get to work on her jeans - Jane's legs are patient; waiting in the air as Rita pulls them off of them. They sit in a pile as next; Jane's baby blue panties remain _defiantly_ until she drags them across her legs; molasses, down off of her feet. Her exposed pussy, sweet and faintly hairy. They too, now exist in a pile on her floor.

Both of them, now ripe to devour.

Rita rose - towering over the woman laid out on the lavish sheets. Rita's bullish, domineering atmosphere is painted in contrast to Jane's _pious_ lifeform. There is a smell of ginger, penetrating. Rita bent down; rolling her long legs on and reclaiming the throne underneath her.

She moves on top, over her body, pressing down on the bed in her creeping, an astronaut in exploration of its prey. Rita's breasts, colliding with the other's tits, bumping into them with a balmy _tremble._ The taller woman gifted a kiss to her neck; smooth, sensual, _wet._ Strands of her chocolatey hair lingered on Jane's skin like a clementine's dripping, lush juice on a bottom lip, vanilla shampoo fragrance.

Her skin is succulent; exquisite; enthralling _high._ Rita travels; down, an adventure brobdingnagian impulse, benevolent, altruistic, _lover -_ each atom worshipped, touched. Her lips meet her breasts; tongue exiting, circling both bodacious, tan nipples, licking them slowly - agonizingly so. Lapping them up, like a kitten's milk, caressing them wildly back and forth with it. Jane grabbed one of her hands; sending kisses to her knuckles.

Rita moved on to Jane's stomach; the lower half of her body perused and considered; like China. Her tongue appreciated the softness of her ribs; thick and appetizing, the savory cream of dessert. Tender yet famished with her lungs.

Rita found her belly; decorated by a silvery decadent ring; shiny and tasteful. She licked around her fuzzy navel; feeling the metal of the ring, resonating in her mouth. Jane's throat opened, ticklish, electric pleasured laughter. Her heart, was overflowed by waves of the utmost plentiful content fullness.

At long last; she reached the pussy.

She touches Jane's legs; spreading them apart easily. Going in for rich, deserved, dinner; She scoots forward on the wood, on her knees with her feet under her, pasty asscheeks cushioning them with gentleness. Her palms clutch her knees; keeping them spread evenly, something devout around them - Rita goes forth, bowing her head and shoving it closer.

Her lips were held; captured by the collision of the supernovas of mouth on clit; crashed. The stars; _dueling_. They pecked the opening; crackling; wiggling coyly in her interference, she heard her own wet, expert, kisses against her vagina, knowing the shape; its mind and heart; like a script. Her tongue fell out - flying in the air and landing on her clit; _shooting_ against it, shooting stars, gradual in its growth and _power,_ it swung itself back and forth on the moon, jostling the pound of flesh, leading it around, playing with its plump; _fruity,_ fullness. Above; Jane emits a hearty moan.

She pushes it in; her tongue breaking through - entering her pussy; _cacophonous,_ sonorous, _raucous_ explosions in the sky without any country. The hearts; blaring, burdensome, bulk, weight removed; feeling its inner walls. It danced a waltz, twirling; fluttering inwards, head bobbing from the r _apid fire,_ repetitive motion. The chorus has only grown; blending seamlessly in with Jane's heavy breaths and gasps.

She feels her juices in her mouth; tasty and fresh like berries, pleased by her pleasure; her starry success, and persists amongst her moans. Her head is pushed down by Jane's hand, eager, classical, and greedy. Rita obliges, deepening her descent; but raising her fire; feeling the sensation of her tongue - pink flesh, transforming within. Her tongue extends; elastic, essential, grace. growing halfway, molding into a _godly_ length.

Collision. Contact. Contact - _contact._

Jane gasped.

It barrels through her; _inside,_ deepened dark, _deepened,_ blowed. It searched - riding the seas in foul, contemptible, odious, tragic bursts of hurricane. It dipped itself in - dipped itself out. Fluttering through. It saunters in; elongated.

"Ahhh - oh - ! " Jane moaned; breathy. She clutched the hand Rita used to hold her legs apart; enduring and strong. "Oh _fuck me!_ Fuck me!"

Rita quickened her speed; jackrabbiting her tight clit, in and out - and out. She fought with it; her own tongue. She deepened; she deepened; speedy and devouring. Her tongue bounces off the walls, tingly and taunting. Quickened; deeper -

"Oh - oh - shit - shit fuck!" Jane shouts; unafraid of volume, possessed by crushing climax.

Harmony; _contact -_ birth; blown by. _Decimation._ Disintegration.

She breathes in. Her tongue, shrinking and escaping.

Harmony; departure.

Her head raises, scooting back from her dripping pussy. She sniffed; watching Jane's naked chest inhale and exhale rapidly. Heard her little moans.

She brought her hand up; panting, unblinking as she wiped her substances from her lips. like makeup.

She grinned - and saw something underneath the bed.

Hot pinkish; particularly shaped. Half hidden. Jane was raising herself up. Rita grabbed it.

"Care for a round two?"


End file.
